


for want of a better pain

by wajjs



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Developing Relationship, M/M, Post-Betrayal, Prompt Fic, stubborn bastards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24008599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs
Summary: He who warns never betrays.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 138





	for want of a better pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dnky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnky/gifts).



> Dnky via discord asked for a conti of this short fic: [How to dispose of a body](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730175)

  * **for want of a better pain**



Chasing reason after reason, going from job to job, the bitter aftertaste never leaves him. And he's a stubborn bastard, as stubborn as they come, so he doesn't bend a knee, he doesn't hang everything up and run back to admit his mistake. But as true as this might be, when the passing days on the calendar mark a year and four months, he still says: enough of this.

Finding the boy is harder than expected. He's not with his team, hasn't been for a while, and he's not breathing anywhere near dear old Bats. He still kicks up some dust in Gotham, hoping to reheat the trail that is slowly growing colder by the ticking minute. It takes no genius at all to notice he's not the only one who noticed the absence. Something is up.

Harder has yet to mean impossible. He grumbles to himself because of course he's set his crosshairs onto the most infuriating target he could choose. Making him trot halfway across the globe to some underground cave system right next to the middle of nowhere, only to find him down on one knee, blood over an eye, bruises coming in full bloom all over exposed skin. But you should really see the other guys. The _numerous_ other guys.

(Dead. They are all well and truly dead. With such precision that it's a damn right beauty.)

"You sure are a piece of work, kid," he says, own blade dripping with blood, gore splattered over his mask.

"Get lost, Slade," is the obvious reply. It hardly holds any weight when it looks like the kid's leg is busted, because he's clearly not getting out of here crawling. It'd take too long and it'd be a shame if something as preventable as infection is what finally takes him back to the grave.

"I don't think so," the mask covers his grin but that's ok. The other's in no shape to resist a swift knockout swipe to the nape. Considering the lack of rest the kid surely suffers from, plus all the injuries, that'll be more than enough to get them far away from this hole. Only then will he blow it up.

Jason wakes up to a grey ceiling over his head, resting on a soft mattress, bright light coming from the open door of the room. Everything aches, yes, he's used to that constant pain. Everything aches and while he might not be where he thought he'd be, he's still not surprised. The scent clinging to the sheets is not one he can forget.

What's bad is the pain coming from his hip. It reminds him that the clock is unforgiving. And he knows this well: red analogical numbers is what he last saw at the end of his first life. That is not a lesson easily left behind.

"Sleep enough, Jason?," Slade asks from the door of the bathroom, towel around his neck, another around his waist. Yellow light filters through and wraps his outline in deceiving glow.

"Why am I here, Slade?," Jason goes straight for what he wants, sits up slowly, feels something funny in his leg. He doesn't want to look down.

The other just hums, walking leisurely to the closet embedded within the wall. No immediate reply comes. Jason takes advantage of this time to do a mental check of all his injuries - looking down after a minute because there is no point in delaying the inevitable. There are thick wrappings all the way up to his knee.

Broken, then.

Still not enough to get him to slow down.

"Before you think of trying to leave," Slade says, putting on clothes methodically, turning around to face him as he secures his belt, "mind sharing why you are so far from the nest?"

The snarl is expected.

"Fuck off," dragging himself to the edge of the bed, Jason stops there, breathing through the sharpness of his hip, "suddenly you start caring after-," Slade lifts an eyebrow, the one over the eyepatch, and drinks in what Jason's movements betray, "after you fucking _betray_ me?"

Maybe there are answers to that, but Slade doesn't feel like giving them. Probably because this is not sudden: the calendar doesn't lie. It's taken him this long to come to a conclusion.

Probably because he had given his fair share of warnings. From the very beginning, he had approached Jason in a way he never treated anyone else before. And he who warns never betrays.

"You should stay in bed," he talks at last, stepping closer till he can push the other down into the mattress again. The motion isn't new to them; there had been a time when all they ever did together was stumble from bed to bed.

" _Fuck. You._ "

"I'm afraid you're not in the right condition for that," Slade gives a tight smile, this side of menacing, and squeezes the bruises on Jason's shoulder till he hears a satisfying choked-off cry.

He leaves the room, locks the door and lingers just enough to listen to the sound of Jason's harsh breathing. This will take some work to get done.

It's barely two hours later when he walks back and sees the other right where he left him. He does not feel pride over that, because he knows the forced stay has little to do with his own actions, and more to do with whatever is going on with the kid's health.

(Slade doesn't care. He does not care. It's simply complicated to get things done when the other person is this much in bad shape.)

"So," he lets his voice carry a little, gives it a bit more strength to capture Jason's full attention, "you are going to tell me just _what_ you thought you'd accomplish going after six heavily armed contraband groups in the span of a month."

Jason snorts. His hands are resting on his stomach (bandaged, too, sutured as well), his eyes stay firm on the ceiling.

"Careful, old man," he speaks through a grin, soft and drawing out the sound, "that _almost_ sounds like you care."

"If believing that makes you happy."

"No," he says, he's still smiling, "of course not. You'd never make me happy. I don't think you're capable of making anyone but yourself happy. And _that_ is still up for debate."

"Then we are just the same, aren't we, Jason?," Slade walks closer, stops by the side of the bed and infuses his voice with poisoned sweetness, "Neither of us can bring happiness. Not for others, not for ourselves."

"We-," Jason tries to sit up but the air pushes out of him in a hiss. The painkillers are finally wearing off. "We are _not_ the same."

"Is that so?," his hand closes around dark locks of hair, tugs on them till Jason's throat is bared. "Then I suppose these borderline suicidal actions are just a big scheme to have contentment fall upon yourself?"

When stubborn meets stubborn, there is not a lot of give. Slade lets go, lets Jason's head fall back on the pillow as he turns to leave once more.

He thinks: is this really worth it? Is this really worth my time and resources?

He remembers the unshakable bitterness he felt for over a year. One more try, then. One more.

Jason's sitting on the closed toilet seat cover, frowning but perfectly still as Slade expertly drags a new razor blade over his jawline, over his throat. It's not like he has any other option but to remain unmoving, and with his shaking hands he can't do this himself. The bleeding cut on his cheek is proof of that.

In these close quarters, they can see everything of each other. The tiredness, the anger, the passage of time. Green that recedes the eyes, storms in a single pupil, the harsh lines striking their faces. There is a new small scar across Jason's eyebrow, Slade notices, another one right under his earlobe, across his jaw. Probably from his helmet taking one too many hits.

Better his helmet cracking than his skull.

"It's the Pit," Jason speaks with his voice barely above a whisper. Slade stops his hand for only half a second, long enough to show he's truly paying attention. "I think. I think some of the healing it did is leaving."

"Your hands?," he points out the obvious because even resting on top of their owner's lap they are still trembling. Not bad enough to seriously compromise aim, but still bad to have Jason switch to larger targets, decreasing efficiency.

"Among a few other things," he says, swallowing past the admission. "It's getting worse."

Slade considers this. It isn't exactly surprising, and it maybe should've been expected when the most assiduous user of the Lazarus Pit regularly bathes himself in its waters. There's also the thought of Talia, whether she thought of giving a gift with an expiration date purposefully or she believed one dip would be enough - both possible, both without sufficient merit. Probably all things Jason has already tested out in his mind.

"So that is what it was all about," when Slade speaks again, he's dragging the edge of the razor one last time before setting it on the sink. The other isn't looking at him anymore. They both know he's been figured out and dislikes the feeling of it. "To go out in a blaze of glory."

It's too hard to keep the venom out of his voice so he doesn't even try. The idea itself is terrible to him. It implies such a waste - of resources (his), of time (his, too), of a damn good fighter. Jason Todd letting himself go to waste is an insult of the higher scale, more accurate and scathing than any profanity that can be said.

It's too much of a bitter disappointment.

"I would be alone at least," Jason grunts, keeps his eyes closed and his throat bared (stupid), "without being subjected to your idiotic judgement."

Slade has the urge to punch him. To snap his neck, twist the brat's head till he feels the bone crack and break under the pressure.

"Why do you even care?," Jason keeps going and this time he _does_ look at him, sight imposing and demanding even when he's half the threat he would normally be. "Last time I saw you, you ran off with those damned codes and-," he stands, slowly, his leg can't hold his weight and his range of movement has gone to hell with whatever's going on with his hip. "You turned on me."

"I'm a man of my word, Jason," he doesn't step back, doesn't offer any space, instead crowds closer until Jason has no other choice but to back into the wall, "and I _keep_ my end of contracts."

"So that's what it all was," it is much too easy to replace the pronoun for a first person one, "a fucking contract. So why are you even back? _Why_ am I here then, huh? For your own sick amusement?!"

He easily catches the closed fist with his open palm, together with the full body weight that follows. Wearing their heart on their sleeve is the way they get killed. Jason should know. He's already died of it once.

He considers telling him everything. That he did fulfill his contracts but he also made sure the people involved got nowhere with their esteemed prizes. That he's back because somewhere along their time together he had already known, had understood that Jason was indeed worth it. That he's spent this long chasing him down and back into his arms because Jason is _his,_ and Slade is honest enough with himself to admit he is as possessive as they come.

But doing so would leave him too open and with no certainty of scoring a win. So he just moves Jason from the bathroom to the bed and leaves the room altogether. There surely is another way of figuring this all out.

Jason curses, loudly and without shame.

Slade shares the sentiment.


End file.
